The night is falling in chill December , The frost is mantling the silent stream, Dark mists are shrouding the mountain's brow; My soul is weary: I now Remember The days of roses but as a dream. The icy hand of the old Benumber, The hand of Winter is on my brain, I try to smile, while I inly grieve: I dare not hope or believe That Summer Will ever brighten the earth again. So, gazing gravewards, albeit immortal, Man cannot pierce through the girdling Night That sunders Time from Eternity, Nor feel this death-vale to be The portal To realms of glory and Living Light |